Exhaust

“The self is only a threshold, a door, a becoming between two multiplicities”
― Gilles Deleuze

I think of virtue I yet I do not think that this consists of something immutable; rather, I believe that flux is the norm, and that everything in existence has a tendencies not towards the surreal, but, rather refined forms of what was there in the first instance. To regard, as I found in a text last night, that language is the world revealing meaning, and that there are autonomous, self-regenerative instances of sense which cultivate themselves through us. This is perhaps what I had always been trying to aim at with writing; that there is nothing that exists of itself. And if you look at humanity, how we move into cties and steadily create a landscape of high-speed networks where we only ever arrive, and never have the anticipation of the journey itself. 

The truth might be that cities begin to diffuse and permeate into landscape again, and one speed will slow down as the other picks up. I mean the speed of travel and thought, respectively. We still think as though a vector makes sense, as though the narrow runway that exhausts and remains in finite form makes a certain sense but it is exhaustive. It unknowingly leads to conclusions which are sensible and far-reaching. Rather than misunderstand the depth of this homeland that we exploit, we might see how vitally it supports consciousness but not mass-markets. Mass production of goods and the continuation of trade at the same anonymous level as is now happening is not fostered. Neither is nuclear power, and neither are prescribed moral or legal systems; the inclulcation of value is based upon continous mutual feedback.

Ultimately what I believe is happening at this moment is the world is narrowing down possibilities, forcing a physical retreat that would fold back into elevated understanding which has not had prior existence as far as can be known. The choice is between self and multiplicities, and it is a choice that we do not make. It is made for us, by how we are with people. The self never dies because it never truly existed as a distinct form. If what we understanding from nature is true for ourselves then nothing dies, but merely regenerates and embodies a new form. As Marcel Proust says, the world was not simply made once but is made every day. Every moment is a re-making, a fluctuation of its character.